Four Days Later
A knock at the door jolted Jaclyn from her work, and she lifted her head. “Come in.”
Her friend and confidante Jean, queen of the corporate strategy scene, popped her head around the heavy office door. “Lunch?”
Jaclyn stretched and, with a yawn, resisted temptation. “I can’t. I’ve only got one more call to make, and my good deeds for the week are done.”
“Really? You made all those offers vanish?”
Jaclyn tapped her hands on her desk in a triumphant drum roll, pleased at the diminished pile. “All but one.” She pointed to the wastebasket. “Every single one of those was filled with enough legal mumbo jumbo, we’d be lucky if we ever saw a cent from the sale. I cleared them all with legal and Everett. They’re outta here,” she said gleefully.
“So you’re busy swatting away the last one?” Jean accepted the documents Jaclyn handed her.
“Sadly, no. It’s actually a decent offer. Okay, more than decent. Remarkable. If Everett is determined to sell, this is the platinum-plated deal he should take.”
Jean breezed through the fine print. “I’m sorry, am I reading this right? An all-cash offer that would make you one of the wealthiest women in the world? Well, it was nice while it lasted. Who’s my new boss?”
“I’m still your evil queen,” Jaclyn said, swiping back the paperwork. “Everett would kill me if I turned this down. But . . . what if Black Technologies rescinded their offer?” She raised her brows mischievously.
Jean lowered herself into the leather seat in front of the desk. “Oh my God.” She massaged her temples. “You’ve seriously lost your marbles. Look, there’s nothing wrong with being stark-raving rich. How about you take my job, and I’ll try on this exorbitant wealth for size?”
Jaclyn stared back, unimpressed. “You have a house in Turks and Caicos.”
“Hello? A corporate strategist should be good with money. And entitled to well-deserved vacations. Which you never do, by the way.” Jean blew her strawberry-blonde bangs from her face with a huff. “Fine. The plan is to get them to rescind their offer. Should I get some police tape and draw a chalk outline of your body on the floor? Or do we feed them the old ‘front for a drug cartel’ line?”
“I’m just going to have a very nice one-on-one conversation with Mr. Davis R. Black, the apparent CEO of Cash Transactions, and see if we can’t come to an arrangement.”
Jean’s underwhelmed expression took a turn for the giddy, leading to practical hyperventilation. As she lost all semblance of composure, Jaclyn clasped her hands, remaining calm.
“The Davis R. Black? Holy shit, that guy looks like a hop, skip, and a spank to Pleasure Island. Wait here,” Jean said, then bolted out of the room. A minute later, she returned, admiring the cover of the magazine in her hands. “Forbes. Seven months ago.” She handed it to Jaclyn.
“You kept this?” Jaclyn had just started fanning through the pages when Jean slapped it shut, giving them both a delicious view of the hunk on the cover.
“I keep the important ones. There’s actually a small blurb about our global strategy in this one, but the cover keeps me coming back for more.”
Jaclyn raised an eyebrow. “I’m sure you were bitterly disappointed in the lack of a centerfold. Should I get some latex gloves to hold this?”
She gazed down at the face of the man she’d soon be calling. The photo was taken with his car in the background. Her car. An identical Aston Martin in the exact same color scheme.
He’s got great taste in cars, I’ll give him that.
Dark, wavy hair. Thick stubble. A smile so naughty, her lady parts lit up with all sorts of sensations. And those eyes—
“That would be playing it safe,” Jean said, “and you never do that. Can I listen in? I’ll bet his voice has that low rumble that makes you weak in the knees and wet in all the right places.”
Jaclyn shook her head. “Look, he might seem like the total package, but trust me, he’s just another player lining up his tickets to Pound Town.”
“Really? Where does the line start?” Jean said, and Jaclyn’s head dropped back in disgust. “Hold the phones—were you in that line?”
“No,” Jaclyn said firmly, determined to defend her prim-and-proper position. “Remember when I went to the Met Gala, and I told you about the guy who asked me out?”
“The engaged one?” Jean snatched up the magazine with both hands, prominently displaying the face of the offending pimp. “Oh no.”
“Oh yes. I’m just hoping he had no idea who I was.”
“Is that actually possible?”
Jaclyn flipped the magazine over and scrutinized his face again. “Maybe. I mean, who in their right mind would hit on someone who runs in the same circles as his fiancée? He’d have to be an idiot. And with where he’s at in the world, this man’s no idiot. If anything, he’ll be a tough nut to crack.”
“Speaking of nuts—the food, and not the crazy lady giving up nearly two-and-a-half billion big ones. Still no lunch? I feel like you’ve barely eaten. In days. I could grab something for you?”
“No, I’m good. I’ll get something after the call. Hopefully some champagne to celebrate.”
“All right.” Jean sighed, giving up on any further coaxing. “But I’ll leave the magazine so you can see who you’re talking to. Like FaceTime if the cell service sucks.” She headed out the door, whipping her head back to give Jaclyn a warning look. “And don’t crinkle him!”
The office door quietly shut.